J'Adore, Maybe
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: You see, there are these little quirks.


It's these stupid things, these silly little nothings that he comes to know about her (things-he thinks-that are more likely to be found in poetry than rattling around his brain) that leaves his chest clenching. These are the things that he really wonders about, he wonders how many other people know these things about her, the miniscule little quirks that no one will remember but him (hopefully).

He found out, years ago, years and years ago, when he'd found himself her makeshift roommate on a Friday night, that her hair curls just so when she lets it dry on its own. She'd shampooed with something girly (strawberry? raspberry? some kind of berry...) and when she'd pulled of her towel-turban she'd just left it to air dry as they sat and she pretended to watch MSNBC along with him.

That was her 'home' hair, a style she never wore at wore, never natural and carefree, always planned, methodical, efficient Donna.

And he wondered how many other people-how many other men really-knew that her hair waved, about two inches from the tip. And that maybe he was the only one.

Other things get him too, like how she nibbles at the caps of pens, spinning them counter-clockwise in her mouth, creating tiny cracks on Bic blues and blacks when she thinks no one is watching. Sometimes she sticks them in her hair and he thinks that's completely gross because, really, her pen has saliva on it; but the tiny white/blue/black sticking straight up from her ponytail makes him smile (even laugh sometimes, if his guard is down) and so it's one of those things that he doesn't rib her about.

The Vanity Fair's that are tucked beneath files and files on her desk are a guilty pleasure and when she's about to go to lunch, or leave for the evening, Donna will pull it out quickly and tuck it into her bag, knowing that if he sees it, well, she'll just never hear the end of it. Josh though, Josh likes the nervous look on her face as she hides the trashy publication from his sight. It's sweet and it makes him tired, and so he lets her go on doing what she does, sparing seconds to watch her.

Keeping up the guise as a responsible, healthy woman she orders salads and lean, turkey wraps and fruit salads and stares down his carb-loaded, cholesterol-filled, monstrous sandwiches with envy. She and Josh eat together more than not, and there are times that he leaves the room just so she has the opportunity to steal a bite and a couple of fries, because for some reason, that makes her feel bad about herself sometimes. But then other times, she'll make the executive decision to switch meals and he'll wind up with a chicken caesar wrap with low-fat dressing and she'll chow down on his roast beef and have no say in the matter. And it's weird, but that's all okay, because he has this weird thing about watching her eat.

He used to think that that was disgusting, but now Josh chalks it up to another quirk that's developed as a result of her many quirks.

How many, really how many, people know that she favors white sheets on her bed in the winter and sage ones for the summer? And how many people know that she and her mother speak every Wednesday morning to discuss a show they both watch on Sunday evening (Donna's usually caught up on her stories by then)? And, and... the Moss's invite him for Christmas and he's been to her childhood home and has seen the room where she grew up, and she's folded his pillowcases for him and cleaned his underwear and, yes, chewed on most of his pens.

These stupid idiosyncrasies, these moments that mean nothing but do, these actions that shouldn't evoke emotions but end up making him lie awake for an extra forty-five seconds thinking about them (before he just passes out, of course). They drive him insane, all of these things that to a normal person make up nothing, really just nothing at all, but to him are his and his alone and just... things that he doesn't want anyone else knowing?

"So, Donna brushes her teeth after lunch," he'd said to Sam before some meeting on the hill to which Sam had replied, "So? A lot of people do." That had been the end of the conversation, but Josh had continued it on along by himself in his head, wondering what sort of toothpaste she used and if she enjoyed that first sip of ice-cold water after you brushed your teeth as much as he does.

Donna turns over the corners of pages of books. That's how she marks where she's left off. It's something that he does too (much easier than finding and keeping a bookmark, let's be honest) but the way she doe sit, checking the number of the page as though committing it to memory, just in case. And pressing down on the paper until it no longer pops up.

And oh, oh, the way she ate corn on the cob really got to him. Gnawed at his brain but he couldn't help thinking it was the littlest bit cute. She would pluck off kernel by kernel with her fingers, not at all proper, but then again corn wasn't really a proper food but how just downright diligent she was about getting each kernel strategically plucked...

No other man thinks about things like this, this is what he tells himself. Maybe he's going crazy. Maybe just maybe he's losing it and that scares him a little. It scares him that he dedicates fractions of seconds thinking about the color of her sweater and whether she needs a new office chair because the one she currently has may not offer enough support.

The thoughts cascade through his mind and he thinks of them all in a split-second.

She whistles when she's bored (and sometimes he joins in).

She sometimes jumps at unexpected points in movies (and he maybe holds her hand for a moment or two until she calms down).

She wears scarves that CJ thinks are too bright for winter (and they brighten his day, so that's just fine with him).

And sometimes he thinks about how somewhere along the way he fell in love with her (oops) and wonders if he'll ever be able to bitch about how she snores at night and actually have some ground to stand on.


End file.
